


I'll Be Seeing You

by Chaseachren



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Sexual Harassment, Strong Female Characters, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaseachren/pseuds/Chaseachren
Summary: “That was rude,” the Joker said, “Won’t you at least let me introduce myself?”His white gloved hand, now spotted red with her blood, lifted her chin, forcing her face toward his. For the first time, Zoe looked him full in the eye. If not for the tight grip on her jaw, her mouth would have dropped open.“Jack?”“That’s right, princess. Did you miss me?”
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will primarily follow the canon plot of The Dark Knight film. However, some of the finer details may be fudged, so I apologize in advance. While this Joker is based heavily on Heath Ledger's portrayal, I'll be borrowing from the entire Joker catalogue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bodies just won't stay buried.

“Do you have to go?” Zoe asked again, biting at her thumbnail. 

“Yes,” Cullen said, patiently, and gently removed her thumb from her mouth, “It’s the commissioner’s funeral, sweetheart. And I’m in the honor guard.” 

“I know, I know. I just have a bad feeling. What if--” 

“Zoe, Zoe. The Joker’s threat makes it even more important that I go.” Cullen sighed, and put his hands on Zoe’s shoulders. Leaning forward, he touched the tips of their noses together. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Zoe said, “so, so much.”

Cullen straightened up, eyeing himself in the hall mirror over Zoe’s shoulder. “Now, does my uniform look alright? I haven’t worn my dress blues since graduation. Do you think it’s too tight?” He ran a white-gloved hand over his stomach. Zoe rolled her eyes.

“You look perfect,” she said, “Stupidly handsome, as always.” He kissed her, and she sighed into his mouth. 

“I have to go now, Zo,” he said regretfully, “Thai food after?” 

“Of course. Good luck. Don’t get killed.” 

An answering eye roll, one more quick kiss, and Cullen was gone. Zoe bolted the door behind him, and turned the television to GNN. 

“--Everyone is wondering whether the Joker will make good on his threat to kill Mayor Garcia during today’s ceremony for Commissioner Loeb,” the anchorwoman was saying, over footage of people gathering at the procession site. Exasperated and anxious, Zoe hit mute, and left the room to get herself a drink. When she got back to the couch, the news was playing old security camera footage of the Joker, grinning in grainy black and white. Zoe shut off the TV, knocked back her vodka, and buried her face in the couch cushions. She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until a knock at the door woke her up. Disoriented, she sat up and rubbed at her eyes. The knock came again. 

“Coming,” she managed, heart pounding with the possibility that it would be Cullen’s partner at the door, telling her that she was so sorry, that there was nothing anyone could have done. Instead, Zoe went weak with relief when she looked through the peephole and saw Cullen, spotless in his uniform, his hat pulled low over his eyes. “Did you forget your key or something?” she asked, as she let him in. Cullen grunted in affirmation, shutting and locking the door with his back to her. 

“I’m so glad you're okay, I was so worried,” Zoe trailed off as Cullen turned around. The man in front of her was wearing Cullen’s uniform, shared his build and sandy blonde hair, but beneath the hat’s shadow, Zoe could see yellow teeth, bared in a humorless grin, framed by deep and distinctive scars. She swallowed and began backing away. 

“Speechless?” the Joker crooned, matching her retreat with measured steps, “But you were just so happy to see me.” 

Zoe’s back hit the wall. The Joker pinned her in place with his body, pressed his nose into her neck and inhaled. His hand, in Cullen’s white glove, slid up to her neck and squeezed. “I’m a little disappointed you didn’t recognize me, Zozo,” he whispered, his breath hot on her ear. Zoe, frozen, could only blink in confusion, until he leaned impossibly closer and breathed, “Sweetheart.”

Cullen’s epithet on the Joker’s lips galvanized Zoe out of her paralysis. She kneed him hard in the diaphragm, and when he doubled over, she elbowed him in the face. Frantic, she lunged toward the kitchen phone, but he threw himself after her, knocking them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Her shoulder collided painfully with a bookshelf as she struggled to get out from under him. He was grinning down at her, mumbling, “Mm, right there. A little harder --” His laughter cut off abruptly when she head butted him in the jaw. Zoe’s knee collided with his ribs with a sickening crack as she threw him off her and dashed toward the door. Her hand was on the knob when she was ripped roughly backward by her hair. Automatically, she gripped his wrist with both hands to prevent him from yanking it straight from her scalp. Breathing hard, Zoe twisted fruitlessly in his grip as he dragged her to the living room. 

“And here I thought we could catch up like civilized people,” the Joker lamented. Zoe had no time to respond before he slammed her head hard into the corner of the coffee table. Pain burst across her skull, and black spots danced before her eyes. Next thing she knew, Zoe was blinking at the Joker from across her kitchen table. Something wet dripped down the side of her face, and her hands were tied behind her to the chair she was sitting in. Her head pounded, worse than the worst migraine, and she felt dizzy and nauseous. She barely managed to turn her head to the side before throwing up all over the kitchen tile. 

“Yeah, that would be the concussion,” the Joker commented, without looking up from where he was inspecting the bottle of vodka she had left out on the counter. After rifling noisily through the cupboards, he returned to the table with two glasses, and poured them each a generous measure. Licking her lips, Zoe tried to wipe the bad taste from her mouth on her shoulder. The Joker pulled out a handkerchief with a flourish, but when he leaned over, Zoe spat in his face. Viciously, he backhanded her across the face. It was shockingly painful, and Zoe felt her lip split. 

“That was rude,” the Joker said, “Won’t you at least let me introduce myself?” His gloved hand, white now spotted red with her blood, lifted her chin, forcing her face toward his. For the first time, Zoe looked him full in the eye. If not for the tight grip on her jaw, her mouth would have dropped open.

“Jack?”

“That’s right, princess. Did you miss me?” 

“Princess?”

Zoe jolted, blinking up at Jack confusedly. “Huh?”

He rolled his eyes, and gave her a crooked grin, “I said, did ya miss me? How long have you been out here?” 

“Not that long,” Zoe answered, wrapping her arms around herself. She was huddled at the bottom of the stairs, in the doorway of his basement apartment. Jack was standing impossibly tall above her, a grease spotted brown paper bag in his arms. “That smells good,” she told him. 

“Uh huh.” Jack juggled the bag and his keys, reaching over her head to unlock the door. “I guess I can spare a fry or two.” 

“Zoe? Earth to Zoe. Anyone home in there?” 

A sharp rap to the side of her already aching head snapped Zoe back into the present. The Joker, no, Jack, was staring at her intently from across the table. Nonplussed, all Zoe could do was look back at him. With the hat off, Jack looked more like himself, even with his blonde curls pulled back and stained green. His eyes were the same, a hazel that could shift from bottle green to pitch black depending on the light. The same freckles were sprinkled across his nose. His teeth were yellower, and there were lines on his face that weren’t there before, but it was definitely him, scars or no scars. 

“What happened to you, Jack?” Zoe asked softly. 

“Nothing happened to me. I happened.” 

Zoe shook her head in disbelief, and gasped when the movement sent shockwaves through her skull. Her shoulder smarted, her lip was bleeding, her head hurt so much, and she had the sudden urge to start sobbing. She closed her eyes against the welling tears. 

“Where’s Cullen?” she whispered.

“Oh, him,” Jack said airily, swirling the vodka in his glass. “He was alive when I left him. A little, uh, worse for wear, though.”

Zoe breathed deeply through her nose as he knocked back the drink, and tried to keep her voice even when she asked, “What did you do to him?” 

Jack slammed the empty glass down, making her flinch. “Cullen, Cullen, Cullen. Enough about him. Let’s talk about me.” 

“I thought you were dead,” Zoe said, unable to keep the accusation out of her tone. 

“I got better,” Jack grinned. Wordlessly, he offered her the remaining glass of vodka, but at Zoe’s minute head shake, he started sipping it instead. 

“Why now?” Zoe demanded.

“Like I said, I want to catch up. I missed you, sweetness.” 

Zoe scoffed, “Now, after ten years?” 

“Oh alright,” Jack sighed. “I, uh, came across this when I was borrowing your young man’s uniform.” He pulled a piece of paper out his pocket, and slid it across the table. Zoe recognized it as the photo of her that Cullen kept in his wallet. It was a creased snapshot he had taken one morning during a run, a candid shot of Zoe, sweaty and smiling. She’d been tying her shoe when Cullen surprised her with the flash. Zoe licked her lips, and tasted blood. 

“So all of this is some crazy coincidence?” she asked bitterly. 

“Crazy,” Jack agreed, downing the last dregs of his drink. Zoe’s head swam, and despite her best efforts, a tear slid down her cheek. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack breathed, wiping her cheek with his thumb, “Don’t cry. You know I can’t stand to see you cry.” 

Zoe couldn’t help but laugh weakly at that. She was so exhausted, and fuzzy from the head injury, that she barely reacted when Jack stood, and flipped open a knife. However, all he did was cut the zip ties securing her wrists to the back of the chair. Zoe rubbed her sore arms.. 

“C’mon, angel,” Jack encouraged, helping her up. Unsteadily, Zoe rose, and let him lead her out of the kitchen, barely avoiding stepping in her own vomit. He steered her through the living room, and into the bedroom she shared with Cullen. Dread returned like a kick to the stomach. She stopped short in the doorway, back colliding with Jack’s chest. 

“It’s okay,” Jack soothed, “I’m not going to hurt you. Not like that.” He urged Zoe forward, settling her on top of the made bed. He knelt and took off her shoes, making soft shushing noises, as if she was a child. 

“I missed you, Jack,” Zoe said, slurring her words like a drunk. She reached up and touched his face, feeling the uneven tissue there. “How did you get these scars?” 

“I’ll tell you some other time, princess,” Jack promised, stroking her neck. His gloves were off, and his bare hands on her throat made her shiver. His grip tightened, and his yellow smile dissolved into a veil of black spots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the 1940 song "I'll Be Seeing You", which is canonically one of the Joker's favorites. In the 1980s comic, Going Sane, a reformed Joker dances with his fiancee to the Frank Sinatra version. It's surprisingly sweet (until it isn't).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling lucky?

Zoe woke up briefly in an ambulance, and then again in a hospital bed. The pain in her head was reduced to a dull throb, and there was an IV line attached to her left wrist. Her jeans and T-shirt had been replaced by a white hospital gown. Catching her reflection in the sliding glass doors of the room, she saw a line of neat stitches at her temple, and a thick scab bisecting her lower lip. Her neck was a tapestry of bruises. A beat cop she didn’t recognize sat sipping coffee in front of her door. When she tried to sit up, he jolted to attention.

“Please, miss, don’t try to move. I’ll call the nurse.”

“Cullen,” Zoe said desperately, “Officer Forrester. Is he here? Is he alright?”

“He’s alive, miss. He was very brave. Detective Montoya knows more – she’ll be here to talk to you, now that you’re awake.”

Zoe sagged back in relief. Momentarily, a nurse came in with a plastic pitcher of water and a cup, from which Zoe drank eagerly. Apparently, she had a moderate concussion, in addition to the several stitches on her temple, and myriad cuts and bruises. The IV was providing fluids and a pain killer, which she could replenish every fifteen minutes as necessary. The nurse could tell her nothing about Cullen, but recommended Zoe try to relax, and informed her that the detective would be here any minute. 

Detective Montoya arrived just when Zoe was seriously considering making a break for it. She was a tall, brown skinned woman dressed in black, with her dark hair pulled back. Her expression was grave. 

“Hello, Zoe. I’m Detective Renee Montoya.”

“Where’s Cullen?” Zoe asked immediately. 

“Officer Forrester is currently in the ICU. His injuries are severe, but the doctors think he’ll pull through,” Montoya said frankly, as she pulled a chair over to Zoe’s bedside. 

“When can I see him?” 

“As seen as we finish talking,” Montoya said, not unkindly, “I need you to tell me what happened.” 

“Tell me what happened to Cullen, first,” Zoe countered. The detective considered for a moment, before sighing. 

“Lieutenant Gordon was shot and killed by the Joker after Mayor Garcia’s speech,” Montoya began, bluntly, “He and a number of cronies infiltrated the honor guard in stolen uniforms. The officers were found stripped and bound in a nearby apartment; only Officer Forrester was severely injured.”

Zoe nodded blankly, staring at her hands. 

“Tell me what happened,” Montoya suggested, again. In a dull monotone, Zoe gave a bare bones retelling of what had happened, omitting the fact that she recognized the Joker as Jack. It took barely two minutes, and at the end, Montoya gave her a look which suggested she knew there was more to the story.

“Do you have any idea why the Joker would target you and Officer Forrester in particular?”

“No,” Zoe lied. She could tell Montoya didn’t believe her, but Zoe was granted a reprieve when the detective’s radio buzzed with static. 

“Look, I have to go. But as soon as you’re able to, we’re gonna need you to come down to the MCU and give a full statement. Try and remember any details, even ones that seem insignificant. You never know what might help us catch this monster.” 

Montoya’s knees cracked as she stood up. “I’ll send the nurse back in to unhook you. Give Officer Forrester my regards.” 

The IV line was barely out of her wrist when Zoe bolted out the door, and to the ICU. Cullen was lying inert in a hospital bed, surrounded by wires and beeping machines. His entire face, except for his eyes, was swathed in mummy-like bandages. According to the doctor’s harried report, Cullen was in a medically induced coma due to severe trauma, most seriously a broken rib which had punctured a lung. Other injuries included two deep incisions on either side of his mouth. The nurses let Zoe hold his hand. One of his fingernails had been nearly ripped off. 

Zoe barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up violently in the toilet. Her whole body heaved, and suddenly she needed to be anywhere but in the hospital. She sent her hapless police escort out for more coffee, and followed a pair of chatty x-ray technicians out of the ward, and up the stairs. Ignoring the authorized access only signs, Zoe climbed all the way up to the roof. Skirting the emergency helicopter pad, Zoe took a seat on the edge of the rooftop, letting her feet dangle over Gotham. By now it was dark, and the night air was cool on her bare feet. 

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” a guttural voice intoned from behind her. Startled, Zoe would have pitched forward, but a dark gloved hand pulled her back. 

“Neither are you,” she pointed out. Batman said nothing. His cape snapped in the stiff breeze. 

“He recognized you,” Batman stated, “You know him.”

“I thought I did.” 

“Tell me.” 

“This is all my fault,” Zoe admitted, gazing out over Gotham’s many twinkling lights. 

“His name is, or was, Jack. I don’t know any more than that. I was just a kid, in junior high, and he was older, late teens or early twenties. I was in a bad situation, at home. After my parents died, I moved in with my uncle. He was a construction worker with a pulled shoulder, who spent most of his time gambling his disability checks away at the pub next door. I would do my homework at the bar while he played cards, which is where I met Jack. Jack was tall and good-looking, but what really mattered was that he was nice to me. One night, my uncle got so drunk he went home without me, and locked me out. Jack lived in the basement of our building, and let me spend the night. After that it became a thing, that I would go there when my uncle got drunk, which was often.

It wasn’t sexual. I would have done anything Jack wanted in a heartbeat, but it never went there. Sometimes I worried that he didn’t want me around, but he kept letting me in, and when he ordered food he always got enough for two. ‘You’re so skinny,’ he would say, tugging on one of my braids, ‘You’re breaking my heart.’

I blushed and shook my head. 

‘I mean it, princess,’ he insisted, rubbing my cheekbone with his thumb, ‘You’re gorgeous. Any day now, you’re gonna be beating boys back with a bat. You got a special fella yet?’

‘Not really,’ I blushed, ‘Not any of the boys at school, anyway.’

‘Phew!” Jack wiped invisible sweat from his brow and threw his arm around me, ‘I don’t like to think what those bad boys would do to a sweet thing like you.’

I leaned against him gratefully. Jack was always so warm, giving off heat like a furnace, except for his hands, which were ice cold. His nails were cracked and ragged, and there was grease or dirt embedded in his cuticles. He smelled like cigarettes and gasoline, and his fingertips on my bare arm gave me goosebumps. 

‘You’re crazy, Jack,’ I said.

‘Like a fox,’ he said, with a wink.

Often, I would just sit on my own, while he worked. The basement apartment was basically one big, concrete room. Jack had half of it cordoned off with big plastic, sheet curtains, like at a butcher shop, or a mechanic's. Behind them, it was like some kind of laboratory, with big sinks and metal counters. We never really talked about it, but it turned out that he was cooking meth, at the very least. Jack himself didn’t actually do meth, not that I saw. Mostly he drank, cheap whiskey and PBR, but he never seemed to actually get drunk. One day he answered the door with a needle between his teeth. He spat it into his palm, and grinned at me, ‘Just in time, cupcake. Come on in and help me out.’

I followed him in, and it became apparent something was wrong. The place was a mess, blankets half off the mattress, newspaper cutouts fluttering everywhere, and broken glass on the floor. There was a huge, crooked smiley face spray painted on one of the cinder block walls. The few, high windows were taped over with garbage bags.

‘Are you okay, Jack?’ I ventured.

‘Hunky dory, angel,’ Jack sang, as he flopped backwards on his bed. The soles of his feet were almost black with dirt, and one of them was bloody. The muscles in his arms flexed under his threadbare shirt as he unbuckled his belt. I approached hesitantly at his impatient gesturing. 

‘Tie me off, will ya?’

I knelt next to him on the bare mattress, where the sheets had ridden up. Carefully, I tightened the belt around his upper arm. He made a fist, and the veins cording his inner arm jumped. I watched as he gave himself the injection. Almost immediately, the tension left his body, and he fell back into the blankets with a soft thump, and an accompanying cloud of dust. Groaning, he stretched his arms over his head, and rolled on to his stomach.

‘Be a lamb, flip the record for me,’ he managed, so I got up and dropped the needle on the first track. It was Sinatra, one of his favorites. He rolled over slightly, and I settled cross legged on the bed next to him. After a moment, he spoke up again, barely a murmur.

‘Scratch my back, princess.’

Gently, I slid my hand under his shirt, and felt his whole body shiver when I dragged my nails down his spine. I spent hours like that, lying next to him in that filthy room, listening to Frank Sinatra and the slow, measured sound of his breathing.

It wasn’t always so peaceful. One afternoon, Jack had disappeared into his makeshift lab, so I was doing my algebra homework on an upended milk crate. There was a muffled curse, a smell of smoke, and then Jack emerged shirtless, in singed rubber gloves. 

‘Goddamn,’ he said, tossing the gloves aside, ‘Chemistry, am I right?’

‘I’m taking bio this year,’ I told him, and he laughed like I made a funny joke. He cracked a beer, and tossed me one without asking. Cautiously, I sipped it while Jack dragged over another crate, pouring white powder on to an old, hardback book with an Italian title. Using a wafer thin razor blade, Jack deftly crushed and then cut the powder into neat, thin lines. He peeled a hundred from the crumpled wad in his pocket, and flossed it rapidly against the corner of the crate before rolling it into a tube. Holding one nostril flat, he inhaled one of the lines with his makeshift straw. He did one more, before offering the hundred to me. I shook my head, and he shrugged. 

While I struggled to finish my first can, he repeated this ritual several times over the course of nearly as many beers. He shifted restlessly, cracking his neck and muttered, ‘It’s bullshit. I just can’t seem to get high like I used to.’ 

Hunching forward, he spread the fingers of one hand flush against the concrete, pulled a white-handled knife from nowhere. He began stabbing at the space between his splayed fingers. Faster and faster, he danced the blade between his fingers, until it was a silver blur.

‘Stop,’ I cried, and grabbed his wrist. Startled, he froze, before turning to me with an unsettling smile. 

‘Oh, baby,’ he crooned, sickly sweet, ‘Did I scare ya? I didn’t mean to. Let’s play a game.’ He jumped to his feet, ducked behind the curtains, and returned with both hands behind his back.

‘Close your eyes,’ he commanded, ‘No peeking.’

‘Jack,’ I protested weakly. 

‘Zoe,’ he mimicked, ‘Don’t ya trust me?’ Nervously, I closed my eyes. After a moment of metallic clinking and rustling, Jack gave the okay. When I opened my eyes, Jack was sitting on the floor in front of me, much closer than I realized, and holding a battered revolver. He brandished it toward me like a magician introducing a stage prop, laughing when I flinched back. 

‘Are you feeling lucky, Zo-zo?’ he asked, so close I could feel his breath in my face. 

‘I don’t want to play,’ I said quickly, hugging myself, and looking away. He took my face in his hands, and tugged it back toward his. The side of the gun was cold against my face. 

‘C’mon,’ he urged, tongue darting out to wet his lips, ‘I’ll even let you go first.’

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he pressed the barrel of the gun to my forehead. His eyes were pitch black as he counted, ‘One. Two. Three.’

On three, the trigger click seemed as loud as a shotgun blast. We were both breathing hard, and I felt as if I’d just run a marathon. 

‘Best high in the world, baby,’ he said with a grin, and when I didn’t respond he said, ‘Don’t be mad. It’s not even loaded.’ He demonstrated by tucking the gun under his chin and pulling the trigger. He put it in his mouth and did it again. The third time, he held it to his temple. I slapped his hand away, and the gun fired inches from his ear. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete wall, before embedding itself in a pile of rotting wood pallets. ‘Oops,’ he said, cackling. My jaw dropped. Furious, I tackled him to the ground. He opened his hands in surrender, and the gun went skittering across the floor. His bare chest was damp with sweat, and there was blood dripping from one of his nostrils. Shaking with adrenaline, I collapsed on top of him, burying my face in his neck, and listened as his laugh turned into sobs.

I should have let him shoot himself.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Batman interjected. Zoe turned to look at him for the first time. With the lenses covering his eyes, it was impossible to guess what he was thinking. 

“I guess not,” Zoe agreed, halfheartedly. She stood up, hugging herself against the chilly breeze. “I don’t know how I can help you. I thought Jack was dead until he showed up at my door. I haven't seen him for ten years. I don’t know anything about what he’s doing, or what his plans are.” 

“You’d be surprised at what might be important.”

“He smoked Parliaments. Drank Old Granddad or Wild Turkey, whatever was cheaper, usually with coke. He liked the kind in the glass bottle better than the can. He listened to the old crooners, and has a surprisingly nice singing voice. He shaves with a straight razor, and uses old spice after. He barely sleeps, and when he does, he gets night terrors. He used to French braid my hair, and his favorite color is red.” 

Zoe's voice cracked. She turned away from Batman, furiously blinking back tears, before continuing, "I knew he wasn't a good person. But I thought he cared about me."

There was a moment of silence before Batman responded, “You were found on your side, in the recovery position, so you wouldn’t asphyxiate on your own vomit. The Joker wanted you to live.”

When Zoe turned around, Batman was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This origin of Joker, particularly the drinking and drug use, is inspired in part by the 2008 graphic novel Joker, by Brian Azzarello. It's not for the faint of heart; Azzarello's Joker is a ruthless, pill popping mobster who hangs out in strip clubs and rapes his henchman's wife. My Joker is not quite so bad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of bad men out there.

The next day, Zoe checked herself out of the hospital against medical advice. Before leaving, she held Cullen’s battered hand, and made his police escort swear he would call her at the slightest change in Cullen’s condition. In exchange, Zoe promised to go into Major Crimes as soon as possible. 

Zoe allowed her fresh faced security detail to drive her home; when they arrived, there was another squad car already parked outside. Nevertheless, Zoe felt uneasy as she unlocked the door. Once inside, there was surprisingly little evidence of the struggle that had recently taken place. The police had already come and gone, taking the Vodka bottle, glasses, and zip ties with them. Entering the bedroom, Zoe gasped.

The sliding closet doors were also floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and scrawled over the entire surface was a patchwork of HA HA HAs, written sloppily in red lipstick. Zoe sat down heavily on the bed, which the police had stripped down to the mattress. After a deep breath, she set to work setting the apartment to rights. 

After vigorous cleaning, a long, hot shower, and a change of clothes, Zoe felt much better, better enough to do what she had been dreading. Full of trepidation, she dug through her side of the closet, pushing aside coats and stray socks to find a battered shoebox at the very back. She took it to the living room, and opened it.The first thing she saw was the white-handled knife. 

At fourteen, Zoe had been tall for her age, but skinny and shy, with long, dark hair that was always falling in her face. She lived in a bad neighborhood, but went to a good school, on a special scholarship for orphans called the Wayne endowment. On the long walk home, she had to pass the local high school. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” one of the boys called, “Where you going?” 

Zoe put her head down, walking quicker. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you.” The ringleader of the group was jogging up to her, while his friends laughed and jeered behind him, “You lost?”

“Please, I’m just going home,” Zoe tried.

“Lemme walk you,” the boy said, keeping pace easily, “Lotta rough characters in this neighborhood. Nice girl like you, in that cute uniform. You might get hurt.” 

They were close to Zoe’s building. She didn’t know what else to do but keep walking.

“My name is Neil.” the boy said, “What’s yours?”

“Zoe.”

“That’s pretty. You know, I see you walking all the time.”

Instead of going through the front lobby, Zoe turned into the alley, heading for the back stairs to Jack’s basement. “This is it,” Zoe said after a moment, gesturing down the cement steps to the rusty metal door. 

“No shit,” Neil said, peering down the steps, “Creepy.” 

Zoe knocked on the door, the loud clangs echoing in the alley. There was no answer. She turned around with a sigh, only to find Neil on the step above her. He was tall for a teenager, with the stubbly beginnings of a beard that didn’t quite manage to hide the acne scars. He boxed her in against the door. 

“Hey,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulders. The look in his eyes reminded Zoe of her uncle when he drank too much. Neil’s mouth found her neck, while one of his hands stroked up her leg, sliding under her skirt. She grabbed his wrist. 

“Stop,” she managed. It came out as barely a whisper. He ignored her, shaking off her grip easily, pressing slobbery kisses along her jaw line as he groped between her legs. When he reached her mouth, she bit down on his tongue, and he drew back with a curse. 

“You little bitch,” he hissed, drawing his hand back. Zoe closed her eyes against the coming blow, but it never came. Opening her eyes, Zoe saw Jack, bulky in an oversized coat, gripping Neil’s wrist from behind. 

“What was that?” Jack asked, voice deceptively light, as Neil yanked fruitlessly at Jack’s grasp. 

“What the fuck, man,” Neil howled, as Jack’s hold tightened even further, until Zoe swore she could hear the bones creaking. 

“Why don’t you apologize to the lady?” Jack suggested. 

“Shit, sorry!” 

“One more time, like you mean it.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again!” 

“What do you think, Zoe?” Jack asked thoughtfully. The white-handled knife appeared in his free hand like magic, the blade glinting in the sunlight. Jack pressed the flat of the blade against Neil’s cheek, almost tenderly.

“Please,” Neil whimpered. 

“Was I talking to you?” Jack spat, tone suddenly venomous. He pulled Neil back, flush against his chest, and held the knife to his throat, where a hair-thin line of blood appeared. Voice sweet again, Jack addressed Zoe over Neil’s shoulder, “What did he do, baby?” 

“He,” Zoe swallowed, “He just kissed me. Touched me.” 

“Mmm.” Jack appeared to be considering. “Should I kill him for ya? Would you like that?” Neil started crying, loud, ugly sobs. 

“Please, just make him leave, Jack,” Zoe whispered.

“Can do, princess.” There was a loud and hideous crack., “Now get lost, before I finish the job.” Jack stepped to the side, allowing Neil to slump over, clutching at his newly broken wrist, before fleeing unsteadily up the stairs. Once inside, Jack’s expression was unreadable. He shed his coat with a thump, pacing the room and running his hands through his messily slicked back hair. 

“Are you mad?” Zoe asked, hugging herself. The words poured out in a rush, “I’m sorry, he started following me and I couldn’t take him to Uncle’s and --” Jack pulled her into his arms, holding her close. The unexpected kindness provoked a fresh round of tears, muffled against his broad chest. 

He shushed her, “Don’t cry, sweetness. I can’t stand to see you cry.” Sniffling, she drew back slightly, feeling guilty for the wet spots on his shirt. He wiped his thumbs under her eyes. “How badly did he hurt you?”

“It’s not that,” Zoe said, looking at her feet. 

“Then what?”

“It was my first kiss,” she admitted, blushing. Her face only got hotter when he started laughing. Frowning, she tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight.

“I should have killed him,” Jack murmured, when his laughter subsided. Tenderly, he brushed her hair behind her ear, and tilted her chin up. Breathless, Zoe hooked her arms around his neck, and stood up on her toes. When Jack didn’t move away, Zoe leaned forward and carefully, gently pressed her lips against his. Jack was still as a statue beneath her, and his lips were dry and chapped. After a moment, Jack pushed her away and spun her roughly against the wall, pressing her there with a hand on her throat. 

“Zoe,” he growled, “Be careful. There are a lot of bad men out there.” After a heart pounding pause, he stepped back, and held out the white-handled knife, “For next time.” 

Ten years later, Zoe clicked open the blade. Even though she knew it was impossible, she half expected the blade to be crusted with dried blood. With a deep breath, she folded the knife shut and slid it in her pocket.

Under the knife, in the shoe box, was a faded strip of photographs, the kind spat out by photo booths at malls and arcades. She remembered begging Jack for quarters, and then cajoling him to take the photos with her. His face was only really visible in the last frame, caught mid eye-roll, but Zoe figured it might be able to help the police identify him. Steeling her resolve, she grabbed her coat, and headed for the train station. 

It was dark when Zoe got off the train, the streets surprisingly empty, and when she got closer to the Major Crimes Unit, she saw that the roads were blocked off. With building trepidation, Zoe slipped through the barricades. A uniformed officer came running up to meet her. 

“Miss,” he said, “This area is closed for the public.”

“It’s about the Joker.” Zoe fished out the card Detective Montoya had given her at the hospital, and after a moment’s hesitation, the officer escorted her inside. Inside, everyone’s attention was riveted on the wall-mounted television, which was playing news footage of Harvey Dent in handcuffs. The banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen read, HARVEY DENT: THE BATMAN?. 

Zoe’s officer left her with the desk sergeant while he called Montoya, and then escorted her into a back office, where he left her with coffee and the promise that someone would speak with her soon. Zoe drank the coffee, which was burnt, and tried not to regret the decision to come here in the first place. Picturing Cullen, motionless and mummified in a hospital bed, helped.

After two terrible coffees, and endless pacing, Zoe ventured out in search of a bathroom. While washing her hands, she caught a glimpse herself in the mirror and was taken aback by her reflection. Her skin, normally a healthy olive, was pale and sallow, and there were dark circles under her eyes. With her hair braided back, the line of stitches on her forehead stood out in stark relief, and the skin around her temple was puffy and purple. Not to mention, her split lip was still swollen and scabbed. No wonder everyone had avoided her eyes on the train. A fresh wave of anger and hurt welled at the knowledge that it was Jack who had done this to her. 

As she walked back through the empty, fluorescent lit hall to the office, she could hear cheering and commotion coming from the opposite direction. She followed the noise, emerging in the central holding area, where it seemed everyone in the building had congregated. However, the hubbub faded into background static when Zoe saw Jack, stripped to his vest and shirtsleeves, with his makeup flaking off. They locked eyes, and he winked. 

“How’s what’s his name?” Jack asked, voice cutting through all the chatter, which went silent as soon as he opened his mouth. Before Zoe knew what had happened, she was across the room, with the white-handled knife pressed to his throat. She gripped his collar so tight her knuckles went white. 

“His name is Cullen,” she bit out. 

“Oh, right,” Jack said, disinterested, “Still breathing, then?” 

“I’ll kill you,” Zoe threatened, desperately. With his hands bound behind his back, Jack could only grin. Deliberately, he pressed himself forward, into the knife, so that a line of red trickled down his throat. Distantly, Zoe was aware that a dozen guns were pointed at her. 

“Zoe!” It was Montoya. “He’s not worth it. Put the knife down.” 

Zoe thought of Cullen, of the broken nail on his bruised hand, and lowered the knife. She folded the blade back in with a flick of her wrist, and stepped back with her hands up. Heaving a theatrical sigh, Jack muttered, “I knew you didn’t have it in you.” 

Hands still raised above her head, Zoe kicked him hard in the groin, and felt a stab of vicious satisfaction as he fell groaning to the ground. 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.”

Zoe whirled around to see Gordon wearily wiping his glasses with his shirt. “They said you were dead.”

“I got better,” he said wryly, “I think we should talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if that knife will show up again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Man or monster?

After reluctantly relinquishing her knife to a bemused beat cop, Zoe followed Gordon out of the holding area and into an office. The desk was cluttered with files, newspapers, and empty take out containers, which Gordon cleared away with a self-deprecating smile. Tacked on the walls were family photographs, featuring red-cheeked, freckled children and a fair haired woman. Gordon pulled up a chair for Zoe before taking a seat, heavily, in the worn leather chair behind the desk.

“First of all, Ms. Nichols,” Gordon began, “I’d like to offer my condolences for Officer Forrester, on behalf of the entire GCPD.” 

“He’s not dead,” Zoe interjected.

“For his injuries,” Gordon amended. 

“That’s not what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?”

Gordon sighed. “Even caught, the Joker is dangerous. A mythos is building up around the mystery, a belief that this monster is somehow more than a man. The last thing we need is a cult following.” He paused, steepled his fingers under his chin, and leaned forward, “I understand you may have some insight into the Joker’s identity.” 

Zoe gripped Jack’s photograph in her coat pocket, just as someone rapped sharply on the office door. An unfamiliar woman stood outside Gordon’s office, radiating tension. Gordon furrowed his brow.

“Ramirez?”

“It’s Harvey. He never made it home.” 

“Christ.” 

Gordon was up and out the door before Zoe could blink, turning to her only at the last minute. “Don’t go anywhere, Ms. Nichols,” he ordered, and shut the door behind him.

After they left, Zoe pulled out the faded photograph of Jack, the edges uneven from where she’d torn it off the rest of the strip. Clutching the photo, she slumped forward onto the desk, resting her head on her arms. The coolness of the wood felt good against her tender forehead. The photographs had been taken at a carnival, one of her best memories of Jack, the happiest she’d ever seen him. 

Zoe had been at school, sitting alone on the bleachers during lunch, when Jack showed up at the fence. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I came to spring ya. The fair’s in town. Fun for all ages, babe.”

“The fair?”

“That’s what I said. C’mon, c’mon.”

Zoe glanced around dubiously, before gathering her things and climbing down from the bleachers. Jack grinned at her from behind the chain link fence, inexplicably dressed in a mechanic’s jumpsuit and gloves. 

“I get out at three,” Zoe reminded him. 

“Screw that. I told you, I’m here to spring ya.” 

With a flourish, Jack produced a pair of oversized bolt cutters from behind his back, and winked when Zoe gaped as he cut a jagged hole in the fence. The need for gloves became apparent when Jack pulled back the sharp edges, grunting with effort. When he was finished, he peeled off the gloves with his teeth, and offered a bare hand to Zoe with a triumphant grin. His fingertips were cold and callused, but they held hands all the way to the bus stop. 

Jack was in a manic mood all the way to Amusement Mile, bouncing on the balls of his feet, smacking his lips, and humming under his breath. When they got off the bus, he burst into song, belting “Meet me in St. Louis, Louis, meet me at the fair!” 

The smell of popcorn and cotton candy permeated the air, along with the hum of neon lights and the whoosh of roller coasters. Because it was a weekday, the crowd wasn’t unbearable, consisting mostly of college couples, or parents with toddlers. Zoe felt a little self conscious in her blazer and knee socks, but no one seemed to notice, and Jack’s good mood was infectious. Cautiously, she let herself smile. 

She bumped Jack’s shoulder, and asked “Can we ride the Ferris wheel?” 

Jack made a face and declared the attraction boring, but agreed on the condition that they ride the roller coaster next. The lines went quickly, and by the end of the day, they had worked their way through nearly the entire park. Jack proved an absolutely brutal bumper car driver. He also liked the tea cups, but they made Zoe nauseous, especially after funnel cake. They both agreed the haunted house was more funny than scary. Zoe spied the photobooth on the way out, and practically begged Jack to take the pictures with her. 

The booth was cramped and dark. Jack had stripped off the top half of his jumpsuit earlier in the day, the sleeves dangling around his waist, leaving him in a threadbare undershirt. In such an intimate space, his smell was distinct, a not unpleasant blend of male sweat and Old Spice. His chin dug into her shoulder, and his breath was hot on her neck as the first flash went off. 

“Don’t forget to smile!” he had said, singsong. 

Zoe was shaken from her memory as a loud explosion rocked the building. Startled, she jolted up from Gordon’s desk. Dust rained from the ceiling as Zoe stumbled into the hallway, ears ringing. A high pitched alarm blared and fluorescent flights flickered on and off as Zoe followed emergency exit signs through corridors that seemed positively Kubrician. She emerged in a parking garage filled with police cars, only to come face to face with a large man in a scowling clown mask. Before she could blink, a gun was in her face.

“Don’t move,” the clown hissed, before shouting over his shoulder, “Boss! We got a live one over here.” 

With trepidation, Zoe followed his line of sight to see Jack, no, the Joker, gripping the arm of a terrified man in handcuffs. Hunched over, his makeup smeared with blood and soot, yellow teeth bared in a rictus grin, Zoe could easily believe the Joker was more monster than man. Only the flash of bare skin at his throat, and the blue veins on his exposed forearms betrayed him as human. When Zoe met his gaze, his eyes were black as pitch. The Joker cocked his head.

“Need a ride, pumpkin?” 

After handing off his stricken prisoner to Zoe’s unfriendly escort, the Joker hustled them both into the back of a police car, slamming the door shut with a terrible finality. With a whoop, the Joker leaned out the open window, and banged on the side of the car. Sirens screamed and tires squealed as the procession of stolen cop cars peeled off into the night. The Joker ducked back into the car, settling in with his legs spread, and his head thrown back. 

“Phew,” he breathed, “What a night!” 

Zoe, who had left her coat in Gordon’s office, shivered, stared resolutely out the window, and said nothing. The Joker pulled an exaggerated frown.

“C’mon, what is this? The silent treatment? Geez, give a guy a break.” 

The Joker rolled his eyes, and slapped a gloved hand on his knee. “Women,” he said, ostensibly to the driver, an anxious looking man who glanced in the rearview mirror with a pained smile. Apparently satisfied with this response, the Joker turned to Zoe, sticking his face close to hers. As she watched his tongue dart out to wet his lips, Zoe felt bizarrely detached from the situation, as if observing it happen to someone else. When she spoke, her voice was soft but steady. 

“I hate you.” 

The Joker only scoffed. Zoe’s fist clenched around the photograph she still held, eliciting a damning crinkle. With snakelike speed, the Joker seized her hand, forcing her fingers open to reveal the crumpled picture. Reflexively, she lunged for it, but he held it tauntingly out of her reach. There was a long moment of tense silence as the Joker looked at the photo.

“Oh, Zoe,” he said, pityingly, “After all these years?”

Momentarily lost for words, Zoe shook her head desperately. 

“You ‒ you’re crazy.”

“All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy,” the Joker said faux thoughtfully, “That's how far the world is from where I am.”

Abruptly and viciously, he tore the photo into shreds, and in the next breath, whipped a knife out of his pocket. Bizarrely, the blade resembled a potato peeler, except the outer edges were sharpened as well. Zoe flinched back as far as she could in the confined space, but he held her in place with an iron grip. A nasty smile spread across the Joker’s face. He grabbed Zoe’s hand, forcefully curled her fingers around the handle, and guided the knife to his own throat. 

“Go on, then,” he urged, tugging her close with a high pitched giggle, “I thought you wanted to kill me.”

The Joker was pressed against the car door, and Zoe was sprawled practically on top of him, one hand gripping the knife at his throat, and the other balanced awkwardly on his thigh, gripping corded muscle. He tilted his head back, gazing at her with lidded eyes. Under the blade, his pulse beat steady, and he smelled painfully familiar. Before she knew what she was doing, the knife was hovering limply around his collarbone, and his fingers were tangled in her rapidly unraveling braid. Surrendering with a sigh, Zoe dropped the knife completely, and hid her stinging eyes against Jack’s shoulder. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured into her hair, and then startled Zoe by banging loudly on the divider separating them from the front seat.

“Pull over!” he hollered. 

Obediently, the driver screeched to a sudden stop, tumbling Zoe out of Jack’s lap. He hauled her up, and with little ceremony, shoved her out onto the curb. Utterly confused, and not a little outraged, she blinked up at him from the sidewalk. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

“I could tell you, lambchop, but then I’d have to kill you!”

Leaning out the window, the Joker dissolved into cackles as the car sped off in a blare of sirens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All it takes is one bad day..." is straight from The Killing Joke, by Alan Moore, which features one of the most definitive Joker origins out there. Check it out if you haven't already!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude at The Stacked Deck.

Zoe had been left out in the cold ‒ literally. She was shivering on the sidewalk in just jeans, boots, and a sweater. Her coat was still hanging on a hook in Gordon’s office, along with her phone, wallet, and keys. The wind whipped her hair into tangles, and her palms were skinned from her tumble onto the curb. She stood up, brushing off gravel, and took stock of her surroundings. With a pang, Zoe realized she was in the East End, not far from her and Jack’s old stomping grounds. Had he dropped her here on purpose?

A lone streetlamp cast a watery circle of light on a busted payphone, and the surrounding shadows seemed darker and more sinister in comparison. The narrow street seemed deserted, but Zoe knew from experience how easy it was to disappear in dark corners. Although she was by no means a shrinking violet, hanging around this area alone at night was just asking for trouble. Fortunately, Gotham bars served alcohol until six in the morning, and she knew of one close by. 

The Stacked Deck was a shitty dive only blocks from where she and Jack used to live, and even though it had been nearly a decade since she’d been to this particular corner of the East End, Zoe found the place easily. As Zoe approached the nondescript entrance, she could see the burnt up husk of her old apartment building a few streets over. Swallowing any lingering discomfort, Zoe rapped on the rusty metal door. The viewing slot flipped open, and a moment later, the door swung inward. 

Zoe smiled at the openly armed doorman, who gave her an obvious once over before jerking his head. The tavern was far from empty, even at this time of night. Morose, gray haired drunks sat hunched at the bar, while a rowdy group of young men played pool, watched by bored prostitutes, who sipped vodka soda. In the corner booth, reminding Zoe painfully of her uncle, four men muttered to each other in Russian, over a game of cards. The bartender, blessedly, was a complete stranger. 

Zoe pulled a twenty from the emergency cash in her boot, and ordered the lowlife special. 

“You want vodka or whiskey?”

“Whiskey, please.”

The bartender placed an overfull shot glass of cheap whiskey in front of her, along with a PBR tallboy. She tipped him generously, and knocked back the shot. The Stacked Deck was where she and Jack first met. Zoe had been sitting in the exact same spot, picking at a plate of cold fries, when a blonde stranger slung himself on to the stool next to her. 

“Lowlife special please, Sal! Make it a double.” 

“Sure thing, Jack. Vodka or whiskey?”

“Whiskey.” 

While the bartender’s back was turned, Jack snuck himself a handful of maraschino cherries. When he caught Zoe watching, he gave her a conspiratorial wink. 

“Want one?”

Zoe shook her head. 

“More for me!” Jack crowed, tossing a cherry in the air, and catching it between his teeth, “How old are you anyway? You look about ten.” 

“I just turned thirteen,” Zoe said, defensively, “I’m here with my uncle.” 

She gestured toward the back table, where a group of men were playing poker. Uncle didn’t seem completely drunk yet, which meant he wasn’t losing too badly. 

“Your uncle, huh?” Jack mused, before downing his first shot. 

“Yeah. I moved in with him last month.”

“What happened to your folks?”

“It’s sort of a long story.” 

“What, you got somewhere to be?” 

“You really want to know?” 

“I asked, didn’t I?” Jack took his second shot, then pulled his stool closer to Zoe’s, “Hit me.”

“My mom died when I was eight,” Zoe began, picking at a stain on the bartop, “I don’t really remember it that well, but they found her in the river. Leo said later that she jumped.”

“Leo’s your uncle?” Jack asked, tipping back his beer.

“My big brother. Half brother actually. I was born when his Dad was in jail.”

“Ouch,” Jack muttered under his breath. 

“His dad was back out by the time Mom died, so me and Leo lived with him for a while, but he didn’t really like taking care of me. Leo’s a lot older, so his dad would take him on errands and stuff, to make money. One day they didn’t come back. Eventually, the police showed up and they said that Leo was dead, and his dad was back in jail. I didn’t even know my mom had a brother until my uncle picked me up at the police station.” 

Jack stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter, laughter so loud that the regulars looked up from their drunken stupors in irritation. Zoe blinked up at Jack in surprise. People usually got stiff and sad after that story, or acted super sorry and sweet. 

“Jeez, kid. You were dealt a pretty shit hand, huh?” 

“I guess so,” Zoe agreed with a weak smile, “My name’s Zoe.” 

“Zoe, huh. Call me Jack.” 

He held out his hand, and Zoe shook it solemnly. 

“Wanna see something cool, uh, Zoe?”

Curious, she nodded. Jack took a cherry, scraped the meat off with his teeth, until only the stem remained, and popped it in his mouth. After a few moments of intense, brow furrowed concentration, he spat the stem back out, now knotted in the center. Zoe prodded the sticky stem with a finger.

“How’d you do that, Jack?” 

“It’s all in the tongue, cupcake.” 

Zoe blushed, although she didn’t really understand why. Jack, with his messy blonde curls and greenish eyes, looked nothing like Leo, but she thought they might be around the same age. Leo would have turned nineteen by now. The familiar, gaping sadness welled up inside her, and she shoved it down with deliberate effort. 

“Can I try?” she asked, gesturing toward Jack’s little pile of cherries. 

“Tell you what, I’ll trade you for a fry.”

“But you offered me one for free before!”

“Supply and demand, babe. The price has gone up.” 

Jack dangled a cherry in front of her, swinging it by the stem tantalizingly. Zoe pretended to consider, before sliding her plate over. The cherry was bright red, sticky, and almost painfully sweet. She was still struggling with the stem when Jack stood up. 

“Sorry, sweetness, I gotta run.” 

“Already?” 

“Yup. I’m done with my beer, and my ride’s gonna be here any minute.” He tapped an invisible wristwatch. “But it was a real hoot meeting you, Zoe. I’m sure I’ll see around.” 

“Oh. Okay.” Zoe wilted in disappointment.

“C’mon, kiddo. Put on a happy face!”

Jack demonstrated an impossibly wide grin. Zoe managed a small smile in return. Halfway out the door, Jack turned around. 

“Keep the cherries,” he had said with a wink, “for practice.” 

The memory brought a smile to Zoe’s face, although it was bittersweet. Now that she knew the suggestive connotations, she blushed to remember her thirteen year old self struggling endlessly to knot a cherry stem with her tongue. No wonder Jack thought it was hilarious when she finally managed it. She’d been so eager to show him that she went with Uncle to the bar even when she didn’t have to, hoping to catch Jack there. She was thrilled when she found out they lived in the same building. 

It had been nearly a month after their first meeting. Uncle came home already swigging from a plastic bottle of vodka, and didn’t even bother to remove his coat before sitting heavily on the couch, which was a bad sign. Even worse, Uncle’s girlfriend, Katya, was working the nightshift, and wouldn’t be home until early morning. Without Katya to take Uncle to bed, he might spend hours drinking on the couch, which doubled as Zoe’s mattress. Sleeping in Uncle’s room was out of the question, and she didn’t want to risk asking him to move, so Zoe was forced to curl up on the opposite end of the sofa, and try to sleep through the TV. 

That night, Zoe took one look at Uncle’s scowl, and decided to make herself scarce. Quietly, she grabbed her jacket, shoes, and backpack, slipped out of the apartment, and headed toward the local park. She had barely turned the corner when she bumped into Jack, almost literally. She shrunk away with a nervous apology, but he caught her arm. 

“Zoe? It’s Zoe, right?”

“Jack!” 

“The one and only. What’re you doing out this time of night? Dressed like that?”

Zoe flushed. Under the jacket, she was still wearing her thin, white nightgown.

“I’m going to the park,” she said, feeling foolish. 

“Like hell. You may as well hang a sign around your neck saying ‘child bride for sale’”. 

“I’m not a child.”

Jack gave her a look. 

“If you wanna get raped and murdered, be my guest.”

“Of course, I don’t want to be ‒ of course, I don’t want that. But I can’t go home. 

Zoe risked a glance at Jack, who was tall and daunting in an oversized coat. When his face was still, Jack looked tired, and infinitely older.

“Okay,” he said finally, “My place is around the corner. You can hang for a while. But no funny stuff, ya hear me?” 

“I hear you.” 

“There minute someone comes looking, you’re outta there, got it?”

“No one’s going to look for me, I promise.” 

“To be honest, if the cops raided my crib, a child bride would be the least of my worries.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” 

When it turned out they lived in the same building Jack laughed so hard Zoe thought he would choke. 

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know, Zoe. I guess we’re just meant to be in each other’s lives!” 

Back then, Zoe’s heart had swelled with the possibility that their destinies were somehow intertwined. Today, the same notion filled Zoe with dread. She had spent years reliving her time with Jack, and had come to the conclusion that any sense of fate was really just coincidence. All of their meetings were happenstance, statistically insignificant, considering they moved in the same East End circles. She had also come to the painful realization that there was nothing particularly special about her. Jack was a performer, and she filled the role of adoring audience.

But the Joker encountering Cullen? Seeing the picture of her in his wallet? That was one hell of a coincidence. His brutal treatment of Cullen – could it have been jealousy? It was appalling to admit, but Zoe couldn’t deny that Jack recognizing her, after so long, gave her a shameful shiver of delight. As she finished her beer, Zoe found herself wishing Jack was sitting next to her, knocking back whiskey and making her blush. 

Was the Joker really so different? 

Zoe asked the bartender to call her a cab. While he was on the phone, she plucked a cherry from behind the counter. By the time he hung up, she had already tied a perfect knot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Stacked Deck is a bar frequented by John Doe in the Telltale video game series. 
> 
> "Put on a happy face" comes courtesy of the 2019 Joker film. 
> 
> The lowlife special is a real thing you can order at dives, typically a shot of well liquor and a can of cheap beer offered at a bargain. My favorite is whiskey and and a 16oz PBR for six bucks.


End file.
